


Make You Feel My Love

by pasiphile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/F, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 18:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2702162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan Watson came back to London expecting a life of boredom and routine, completely devoid of the danger and excitement she craves. But that hadn't taken into account the woman-shaped whirlwind called Sherlock Holmes sweeping through her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make You Feel My Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bisexualcyborg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualcyborg/gifts).



> for Sarah's birthday. I hope you enjoyed it, darling!
> 
> (thanks to Kat/holyfant for betaing!)
> 
> warnings: mildly kinky sex, mention of drug use, overdose and suicide attempts

**I**

_Who’d want me as a flatmate_ , Joan had said, and now they were here, in good ol’ St Bart’s, bringing back all the memories. God, she felt old.

The lab was empty apart from a dark, impressively-curled head hunched over a microscope. Joan gave the person a passing glance, then looked at the room. Shiny and new. “Things have changed, haven’t they?” she muttered.

“Sherlock?” Mike said. Joan blinked in confusion.

The heap of black curls bobbed up, revealing a sharp pale face. “Yes, yes, I’m going, don’t worry.” She slid off her chair – she was tall, for a woman – and grabbed a bag, then went to the door.

“Oh, er, don’t leave on my account,” Joan said.

“Don’t worry, I had better things to do anyway,” the woman said casually. But then her eyes – very light blue, a bit startling – caught on Joan and she frowned and doubled back, staring at Joan like she’d done her some personal offence.

“You don’t make  _sense_ ,” the woman snapped.

“Ah, Sherlock, this is Joan Watson,” Mike said. Joan extended her hand.

The woman –  _Sherlock_? Really?  – didn’t take it. She stopped right in front of Joan and squinted at her. “How did you end up in a combat situation?” she asked.

Joan felt herself go stiff. She turned to Mike. “You told me you – ”

“I didn’t say a word! She’s just – Sherlock, tell her.”

“Tan lines,” Sherlock said abruptly, still staring at Joan with a strange resentment. “At your wrists, not higher, meaning you were in some kind of uniform. Combined with your remark when you entered and your posture, that only leaves RAMC. But the British army doesn't allow women in combat situations so how did you – ”

“Surprise attack,” Joan said curtly, glaring back at Sherlock.

The other woman didn’t seem deterred. The intensity was suddenly gone from her face and absurdly, she smiled. “Ah, yes, of course. Should’ve known.” She cocked her head and looked Joan up and down, her smile growing. “Yes, you’ll do.”

She stepped back suddenly, leaving Joan feeling like a stranded fish. “Wh-"

“221B Baker Street, don’t dawdle.” She winked, and then, with a swish of long coat and black curls, she was gone.

Joan opened her mouth once or twice, shut it again, and looked at Mike. “What… What just happened?”

Mike grinned at her. “You just got yourself a roommate.”

 

**II**

“You’re mad,” Joan said, carefully disinfecting a small cut on the sole of Sherlock’s foot. “Do you have any idea what kind of filth there is on the London streets?”

“I do know. Better than most, in fact. I can probably manage an alphabetical summary, if you’re that interested.”

“Then  _why_ – ”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’m good in heels, but not that good. I needed to sprint.”

“What if you’d stepped in, I don’t know, glass? A needle?”

“Then I’d be bleeding, obviously.” She stayed silent for a moment, then said, with obvious satisfaction, “Got him, though.”

Joan bent down over her medkit and fumed in silence.

Sherlock Holmes was mad.

Not  _mad_ mad, as far as Joan knew the woman wasn’t suffering from any kind of psychological condition, she just…

And that’s where, every single time, words failed her.

Sherlock Holmes, who clambered over buildings and balustrades and chased criminals halfway across London but still insisted on wearing tight skirts and high heels. Who refused to have her hair cut to a more practical length but also didn’t bother taking care of it unless she was bored. Who had a mind like a diamond yet had some truly _spectacular_ gaps in her knowledge of the world – the woman didn’t even know the name of the current Prime Minister, for god’s sake. And yet, only yesterday she’d rattled off the entire table of Mendelev in alphabetical order just to prove a point.

“You’re mad,” Joan said again.

“You’re not the first to have made that observation.” Sherlock widened her eyes in mockery. “People are so unimaginative.”

“Just…” Joan got up from her knees and looked down at Sherlock. “Just take care of yourself, yeah?”

Sherlock blinked and cocked her head, smile gone.

Joan shook her head and went to wash her hands.

 

**III**

“For  _fuck’s sake_ , Sherlock.” Joan slammed the door behind her and stormed to her chair, where she fell into it heavily.

Sherlock was sitting in her usual chair, reading the paper. “What are you upset about now?” she said, in that superior, arrogant,  _bored_ tone that always made Joan want to grab those stupid curls and shake her until she stopped being so – so – so  _Sherlock_.

“I just had to sit through an entire meeting with Sebastian bloody Wilkes making horrible innuendos at every opportunity. Can’t you just –  _look_ _at me_ ,” she snapped, as Sherlock continued to read her paper.

Sherlock gave a put-upon sigh and looked up. “So, bad jokes. That’s what you’re angry about?”

“Sherlock, I’m just – look, can you just stop telling people we’re  _partners_ , because we – I’m getting really tired of having to explain over and over again that I’m straight.”

 “You’re not.”

Joan stared at her. Still the bored-and-superior face, and she’d never wanted to wipe it off quite as much as she wanted to now.

“Excuse me?” she managed.

“Not straight. You.”

“Sherlock, I know you’re – you’re very good at noticing things, but - ”

“But you’re not.” Sherlock threw down her paper and leaned forward, going into explaining mode. “Growing up with a gay twin sister, it’s only natural you tried to differentiate yourself from her by ignoring any attraction you have to women and focusing solely on men, a coping mechanism made easy because of societal pressure.”

Joan gave a sick-sounding laugh. “You’re saying I’m gay because I don’t like Harry?”

“No-o, I’m saying you’re bisexual, obviously. You’re attracted to Sarah.”

“What? She’s – she’s just a  _friend_ , Sherlock, I know the concept is  _alien_  to you but - ”

Something changed in Sherlock’s expression and Joan immediately felt guilty. She hadn’t meant that, really she hadn’t, but Sherlock…. She could always bring the worst out of someone.

“Your eyes dilated when you were watching her,” Sherlock started, something sharp in her voice. “You couldn’t tear your eyes from her cleavage when she bent over. You kept fixing your hair, your entire body was pointed to her, and you laughed a lot harder than average even when she wasn’t being  _that_ funny.”

Joan leaned forward, head in her hands. She had a point, she could feel a dreadful slow realisation in the back of her mind – Sherlock had a point.

“But fine, I’ll stop using  _partners_ if it bothers you that much. Have you got an alternative, because – “

“I’m having a crisis here, Sherlock, for god’s sake - ” Joan ran her hands over her face. “Oh god. I’m gay. I’m a dyke. I’m a lezzer. I’m a – ”

“Stop being an idiot,” Sherlock said impatiently. “You’re not  _lesbian_ , you’re bisexual. First time you saw Lestrade you were obviously staring at his backside and – ”

Joan’s head whipped up. “ _What_?”

“Oh, sorry, was I supposed not to notice?” Sherlock sneered. “Only it was so obvious, you see.”

“You… you know what? I don’t care.”

Sherlock folded her arms and, to all intents and purposes, sulked.

Joan looked down at her hands. Bi. That… explained a lot, actually, now that she thought about it. But –

Oh god,  _Sarah_.

Joan got her phone out and hastily went through her contacts.

“Going to call Sarah to tell her how  _sorry_ you are for acting too straight?” Sherlock asked, lip curled in derision.

Joan pointed a finger at her. “Shut up.” And she got up and went to the little hallway for some privacy.

The phone rang twice. “Hello?” Sarah said, sounding cold.

Joan felt some of her resolve slip away. “Sarah? It’s - “

“Joan!” And already Sarah’s voice was sounding a lot warmer – she sounded genuinely pleased to hear her. “What are you - “

“Look, I need to tell you something. I’ve…” She took a deep breath. “I’ve been a prat. To you. To be fair, I do have an excuse, but I still was a prat.”

“You  _were_ ,” Sarah said, but she was laughing, so that was alright.

“It’s just that… I haven’t really…” Christ, her hands were shaking. Maybe she should have left this till later? But then she would have lost her nerve, for sure. “I thought I was straight.”

A pause. “Ah,” Sarah said at last. “Yes, I suppose that is a good excuse, isn’t it? So, when did you change your mind?”

“I, erm. I had my mind changed for me. About five minutes ago.”

And now the quiet laughter in Sarah’s finally lost its restraint and she laughed out loud – but it’s wasn’t mockery. “God, Joan, you… Are you okay?”

“Not sure, actually…” She stared at Sherlock in the other room. The woman had her head down but Joan was willing to bet anything she was eavesdropping. “I think I might still be in shock. But that doesn’t change… I really like you, Sarah, and I’m sorry I was such a massive dick to you, and… and I’d like to make it up to you. So.” Joan swallowed, throat dry. “Would you like to go out on a date? With me?”

“I would  _love_ to.”

“Great.” Joan breathed out in relief. “Great. Okay, I… There was this Chinese circus in town, how’s that sound?”

Down in the living room, Sherlock’s head swung up.

The expression of her face was not one Joan could read.

 

**IV**

“Dramatics really runs in the family, doesn’t it?” Joan said dryly.

Behind Mycroft, Anthea gave Joan a smile and a wink. Mycroft just gave Joan one of her typical cool unamused smiles.

“You could have just met in a pub somewhere,” Joan continued, although she had trouble imagining Mycroft, in her three-piece skirt suit and perfectly coiffed hair and general air of _matron_ in a pub somewhere, nursing a pint.

Not that the current  _abandoned warehouse_ was that much better.

“I prefer privacy.”

“Right. Well, let’s hear it.”

Mycroft reached into her purse and pulled out a thin file. Joan took it, eyed it suspiciously, then opened it.

It was a print-out from a real estate agency, of some cosy little apartment at the outskirts of London, in one of the nicer neighbourhoods.

“The commute is quite doable,” Mycroft said calmly. “And your current salary should suffice to pay the rent and leave enough extra. It’s a very good deal.”

“You want me to move out of Baker Street,” Joan said. She stared at the file.

“Yes.”

Joan looked up. “Why?”

Mycroft smiled. “My sister is… Well, she has a tendency to overrun people around her. She’s stubborn and goal-oriented and doesn’t care one jot for the people surrounding her, often to their detriment. I’m doing this for  _you_ , Dr Watson. And for her as well, of course.” Another smile, but this time it was a bit sad. “Sherlock might not care for other people that much, but on the rare occasions someone does get close, only to fall out when Sherlock inevitably proves too much for them… Well, let’s just say we don’t want a repetition of the Vicky incident.”

“Who’s Vicky?” Joan asked. And then, “You know what, I don’t even want to know. If Sherlock wants to tell me, she’ll tell me. And if Sherlock wants me to move it, she’ll tell me that too, but until that I’m not even going to  _consider_ leaving, got that? And you can take this  _cosy affordable little place_ and ram it up your arse, for all I care. Goodbye.” Joan threw the file down in disgust and turned on her heel.

“Dr Watson?” Mycroft called out.

“Fuck off.”

“Take care.”

Joan looked briefly over her shoulder, at Mycroft’s worried frown, but then turned back.

Mycroft was not her problem.

***

Sherlock was playing the violin. John paused in the doorway to listen. Sherlock could play beautifully, but for some reason she had chosen not to, right now. The sounds coming from her violin sounded pained, mocking, false.

“What did she want?” Sherlock asked idly. It was a faked idleness, though; Joan knew Sherlock well enough by now to recognise when she was tense. 

“Wanted me to move out.”

“Ah.” Sherlock’s bow screeched across the strings in a painful dissonant. “And what did you say?”

“Told her to shove it.”

Sherlock’s bright blue eyes flickered to Joan and she smiled. Relieved.

 

**V**

Sherlock was a bit strange. That was something Joan had known from the start, something she’d grown used to, something she’d even started to like.

But even by Sherlock’s standards, she had been  _really_ strange lately. Long periods of staring at Joan, hovering far too close – again, even by Sherlock’s standards, which didn’t think much of things like  _personal space_  – and picking fights whenever Joan brought someone home, whether it be a boy or a girl.

Joan hadn’t even bothered going on dates for the last two months or so, just because she didn’t want the drama.

And it bothered her because she couldn’t  _understand_ it. Most of Sherlock’s other weird things had some kind of logic behind it, but this? It just didn’t make sense.

So she could either let this run its course – Mycroft’s words went through her head,  _when Sherlock inevitably proves too much for them_ – or she could do something about it.

Which was why, on a sunny Saturday afternoon, two days after returning from Baskerville, Joan took away Sherlock’s laptop and sat down in front of her. “Right,” Joan said, decisively. “What’s going on?”

Sherlock’s lip curled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“This.” Joan waved her hand. “You being all – protective? Weird.”

Sherlock continued to stare, resentfully, arms crossed.

“Last time you were like this was after – after Moriarty.” Joan suppressed a shudder at the memory and Sherlock’s eyes flared. Better not to dwell too much on that. “And I got that, I get why you would be worried then. And it passed, didn’t it? But now? Sherlock, this has been going on for  _months_. What’s wrong?”

Sherlock looked down, mouth a thin line. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

“Well, obviously I have to, don’t I? If it’s bothering me.”

Sherlock’s head flew up. “It’s bothering you?”

“Well, yeah. Which is why I’m bringing it up. Look, just…” Joan sighed and ran a hand through her short-cropped hair. “Can we just talk about it? Because if we don’t, I… Just, don’t give your sister the satisfaction of being right about this, yeah?”

Sherlock’s jaw worked in frustration. “You’re – I’m – I’m not good at this.” She jumped up from her chair and started pacing, lips pursed, every movement sharp.

And how much must it have cost her to get those words out?  _I’m not good at this_ , Sherlock, who was brilliant at everything she put her mind to, who was always the unchallenged best, who’d lived her life being absolutely sure of her own competence.

“Sherlock… Whatever it is, we’ll work it out, yeah? Just, spit it out and we’ll - ”

Sherlock whirled. “I want you.”

“Want me to do what?”

Sherlock stared. Joan ran those three little words through her head again. What would she – oh.

 _Oh_.

“But – but you  _don’t –_  “ Joan said, utterly baffled.

“Apparently I  _do_ ,” Sherlock replied, in a tone she usually only reserved for dealing with Mycroft. Sharp and condescending and quietly furious. “I’ve tried  _not to_ , but of course it didn’t work. Instincts, god, Irene Adler had that bit right, didn’t she? I’ve tried to fight this but - ”

And suddenly she deflated. She fell back into a chair and sighed. “This is the point where you’re gently understanding and compassionate and utterly infuriating,” she said, with a sideways glance at Joan.

“I’m not sure if I can. Be… what was it? Understanding and compassionate?”

Sherlock squeezed her eyes shut. She looked miserable. “So it’s as bad as that, then? I should’ve known.”

Joan stared at the prone form of Sherlock, wallowing – because that was what she was doing, not discussing this like adults but  _wallowing_  – and suddenly the absurdity of the situation caught up with Joan and she started laughing.

Sherlock eyes flew open and she frowned at Joan, with that strange hurt look in her eyes Joan had only seen a handful of times before. “What are you laughing about?” Sherlock demanded.

Joan couldn’t reply. She was too busy cackling, bent double, holding her stomach. “Sherlock,” she wheezed, “Sherlock, you complete  _idiot_.”

Sherlock sat up straight. Obviously her pride had been stung. “I’m just trying to make the best of the situation, but if you find this  _amusing_ , I suggest you - “

Joan leaned over and kissed her.

Sherlock was, unsurprisingly, not a good kisser. She didn’t seem to grasp the concept of kissing, or maybe she was just too stunned to react, but either way she didn’t  _do_  anything, only let her lips be parted by Joan’s tongue, let her do what she wanted. She didn’t even move her hands.

And when Joan eased off, her eyes were wide and shocked.

“Don’t tell me,” Joan said warmly, “that in all the time you thought about this, you never considered the possibility that it might be mutual?”

Sherlock licked her lips. She still looked uncharacteristically,  _adorably_ confused.

“You didn’t, did you? You self-aggrandising arse.”

That got through to her. “If this is your idea of sweet-talking, then…”

“Then what?”

And Sherlock went back to looking confused.

“Alright,” Joan said firmly. “Ground rules.”

“Ground rules?” Sherlock sneered.

“Yes. One,” Joan held up a finger, “We’re going slow. No arguments there.”

Sherlock huffed, on the surface annoyed, but she was  _sure_ there was some relief there, too. “ _Fine_.”

“Two. If something’s not right, if you’re feeling insecure or just, anything? You tell me. We talk about it.”

An irritated eyeroll. “Ye-es, I get it.”

“Three. No more stupid over-protectiveness. I can handle myself, alright?”

“But – ”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes, fine. I’ll control my protective impulses, if that’s what it takes.”

“Okay. No hovering either.”

“Am I allowed to touch you, then?” Sherlock asked, voice heavy with irony. “Or would that be going too  _fast_?”

“Depends on where you intend to touch,” Joan said, grinning. And her grin only grew as she saw the slight traces of a blush on Sherlock’s cheekbones. God, this was fun:  _finally_ she had an advantage on Sherlock.

Joan opened her arms. Sherlock hesitated, and then she scooted up and leaned against Joan’s chest. Joan wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s slender ribcage, revelling in the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, the warmth she gave off, the curves and lines beneath the clothes…

Joan closed her eyes and shivered. Maybe Sherlock hadn’t been the only idiot in the room.

“Mycroft is going to be  _insufferable_ about this,” Sherlock muttered.

“It’s worth it,” Joan said, fingers playing with Sherlock’s dark curls. “Isn’t it?”

There was silence for quite a long time, almost long enough that Joan started to worry, but then Sherlock sighed deeply. “Yes. Yes, it is worth it.”

 

**VI**

“Joan.” Sherlock pushed the door open. “Have you seen my – ” And she skidded to a halt, heart skipping a beat.

It wasn’t the first time she’d barged into the bathroom with Joan still undressed. She’d been doing it from the start and Joan had grown used to it, and Sherlock had happily continued without ever feeling awkward, so what was different now?

The difference now, of course, that  _Joan naked_ suddenly had a whole new meaning. A whole range of previously unthought-of possibilities.

“Your what?” Joan asked.

“My new box of microscope slides,” Sherlock said, but her mind wasn’t in it. She could concentrate on nothing but the vague pink-and-white shape of Joan, strangely distorted beneath the water.

“- bed.”

Sherlock blinked. “Sorry?”

“I shoved them beneath your bed because Mrs Hudson almost kicked them over,” Joan repeated patiently, but there were dimples in her cheeks meaning she was  _laughing_ at Sherlock.

“Right.”

“Anything else?”

“No.” Sherlock licked her lips. “Yes. Can we please forget about this whole _going slow_ business?”

“No,” Joan said calmly. “Go wank somewhere in private if you can’t hold out anymore.”

“That isn’t - ” How was Joan so unaffected by all this? But, yes, of course, a long shift down at the practice, she’d be too physically exhausted to feel anything as strong as the things Sherlock was feeling. Energy, too much energy, that was the problem.

“Sherlock. Out.”

“Yes.” She turned around stiffly and marched out. Work. That was it. She simply needed something else to focus on.

So she left the microscope for what it was and started laying out files on the floor. Once they were in the right pattern, she sat down cross-legged in the middle and folded her hands. There. Bloody murder. That should get her mind of deliciously soft-looking Joan.

And of course the damn woman chose that moment to come back into the room, bringing with her the scents of lily-of-the-valley shampoo and lavender soap, strangely old-fashioned, quintessentially _Joan_.

Sherlock made to get up but Joan tutted. “No, stay down.”

The scrape of a chair being pulled close. The back of Sherlock’s neck prickled.

Joan’s hands lifted the mass of Sherlock’s curls from her back. “Why don’t you have this cut, anyway? If you’re not going to take care of it?”

“Principle.”

Joan ran her hand over Sherlock’s scalp and Sherlock tipped her head back, shivering. She felt like a cat, ready to purr.

The contentment came to a rather abrupt halt when something suddenly pulled sharply at her hair. “Ouch,” Sherlock said, pointedly. She glared over her shoulder at Joan and the offending comb in her hand.

“Eyes front.”

Sherlock rolled her eyes but obeyed. She leaned back a little until she was leaning against Joan’s legs. Joan continued to work the comb through Sherlock’s tangles, mercifully less painfully then before, and with each gentle tug and scrape at Sherlock’s scalp she could feel herself slide slowly deeper, relax, tension seeping out of her.

“I used to want hair like this, you know,” Joan said.

“Why, what was wrong with your hair?”

“Too boring, too flat, no interesting colours. Dyed it bright red once and my mum nearly had a coronary.”

“I’m having trouble imagining you as a redhead.”

“I’m sure Harry still has the incriminating pictures somewhere.”

A sharp pull at Sherlock’s hair made her eyes pop open and her thought process derail. “What?” Sherlock said, offended.

“ _No_ , you’re not going to look for those pictures. I made a horrible redhead.”

Sherlock gave a hum and snuggled back against Joan’s legs. The comb was running almost completely unhindered through her hair, now. Seemed like Joan had achieved the impossible and untangled Sherlock’s hair without even needing any products.

“Do you still want that?” Sherlock asked, eyes half-closed. It made the world look pleasantly blurry.

“Hm? Oh, the hair. No, not really. This is practical, suits me fine. Like the rest of me.” Joan leaned away from Sherlock and put the comb down. Sherlock watched her, her fingers, the soft sweater covering her arm, the turn of her wrist. She could still smell lavender on Joan’s skin.

“Hm?” Sherlock asked, absently.

“Me.” Joan lifted Sherlock’s hair and ran her fingers through it. “I might not be perfect or beautiful, but I’ll do.”

“Perfection doesn’t exist and beauty is entirely subjective.”

Joan laughed. “Do you think I’m beautiful, then?”

Sherlock blinked. “I… hadn’t given it much thought, actually. What are you doing?” she added, as Joan’s fingers did something to the hair at Sherlock’s scalp.

“French braiding your hair. Do you mind?”

“No-o. No, keep going.”

Sherlock closed her eyes again and concentrated on the feel of Joan’s fingertips, sure and confident.

“I used to do this for Harry,” Joan said, in a strangely peaceful, even dreamy voice. “Before she shaved it all off, that is.”

“Was this before or after you dyed your hair?”

“After,” Joan said, chuckling. “She was furious at me for stealing her opportunity, so she decided to one-up me.”

“Quite the handful, the two of you.”

“I was. Still am, I suppose. There.” She let go of Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock caught a little sigh of disappointment and raised her hand.

Her hair was all tightly reined in, not one escaping curl like whenever she did her hair herself. “Hm,” she said. “This is handy. No stray tendrils.”

Joan leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Please tell me you’ve never set fire to your own hair.”

“Sorry.” Sherlock flashed her a grin. “Although it was more  _dunked into acid_ then  _set on fire_ , strictly speaking.”

Joan shook her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“So you keep saying.” Sherlock turned back to her files, spread around. “Now shush, I’ve got work to do.”

“Sure,” Joan said. “I’m going to check up on Mrs Hudson, alright?”

She stood up and her hand brushed Sherlock’s nape. Sherlock stubbornly kept her eyes down and hid the resulting toe-curling shiver. Only when Joan was at the door did she look up, to see Joan’s back in her old threadbare jumper.

The door closed. Sherlock stared down at her files and found she couldn’t make any sense of them, train of thought completely derailed.

“Damn,” she muttered, and started reshuffling.

 

**VII**

“Look,” Sarah said over the phone. “We need to have coffee, alright? I want to know all. How long has it been, now?”

“Sherlock and me? Five weeks. How does Tuesday work for you?”

“Perfect. So,  _nothing_? Just cuddling?”

“Sarah,” Joan said firmly. “I am  _not_ going to discuss my sex life – ”

“- or lack thereof – ”

“Yeah, whatever. I’m not going to discuss it over the phone.”

“Fine. But you  _are_ going to discuss it over a coffee and a chocolate gateau.”

“Fine,” Joan said, laughing. “I’ll see you then.”

“Bye, Joan. Try not to explode of sexual frustration.”

Joan ended the call, still smiling, and entered the living room.

Where Mycroft was sitting.

“Jesus  _Christ_ ,” Joan said, jumping backwards. “How did you - “

“Mrs Hudson was so kind as to let me in.” Mycroft smiled. “I owe you an apology.”

“Do you?” Joan sat down in the chair opposite. Sherlock’s chair, and she would notice that someone had been sitting there once she got back. Joan would have to find some kind of explanation – or just tell the truth.

“Yes. I’m afraid I misjudged the situation somewhat.” Mycroft steepled her fingers. “You see, my sister can be quite…  _domineering_. She has dragged other people into situations they did not want before, and I thought… But you seem to be quite capable of managing her.”

“She isn’t a horse,” Joan said, annoyed.

“She’s proud, temperamental, high-maintenance, and an amazing performer. The similarities are rather obvious.”

“She’s an adult. She’s entitled to make her own mistakes.”

“Even when it endangers her life?” Mycroft asked delicately. “When she tries to kill herself?”

Joan’s breath caught.

“Six years ago.”

Joan whirled. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, her face cold and distant, like a stranger’s. “I OD’ed.”

“ _Why_?” was all Joan could manage.

Sherlock looked down.

“A situation not too dissimilar to the current one,” Mycroft said, delicately. “Someone coming into Sherlock’s life, making things a bit better, before leaving and making them that much worse.”

“It wasn’t just that.” Sherlock slammed the door closed and stalked to the other side of the room, her back to them.

“Victoria Trevor,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock’s shoulders went tight.

“So, apology?” Joan said sharply.

Mycroft’s colourless eyes turned to her, but she could feel the back of her neck prickling. Sherlock was watching as well.

“I’m sorry?” Mycroft asked, sounding perfectly measured.

“You said you owed me apology, but I haven’t actually  _heard_ one.” Joan gave Mycroft a sharp smile, anger broiling inside of her. “Although I’m not sure which bit you’re referring to. You’re sorry for kidnapping me?” Her voice was rising, just a bit, taking on that hard sarcastic edge she only ever got when she was  _really_ angry. “Sorry for being an interfering baggage and not letting your sister make her own decisions? Sorry for thinking I was a pushover?”

Sherlock snorted. It made Joan feel a bit better.

“I merely wanted to protect you,” Mycroft said. She still sounded reasonable, but there was something almost insecure about her now. “Both of you. If I – ”

“We’re not children. We don’t need someone to tell us what’s best for us. So.” Joan stood up. “Unless there was something else…?”

“No.” Mycroft stood up and extended her hand. “And for what it’s worth, I do apologise. For misreading you. In my defence, it doesn’t happen that often.” 

“Right.” Joan eyed the hand, then decided not shaking it would be childish. “Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t. Doctor Watson.” Mycroft’s eyes slid to her sister. “Sherlock.”

“Mycroft,” came the chilly reply.

“I’ll let myself out.”  She got her umbrella and left the room.

Sherlock stayed silent. Her shoulders were tense, drawn-up, and she was avoiding looking Joan in the face.

“Are you alright?” Joan asked cautiously.

“Yes. I’m used to her trying to goad me.”

“Still…”

Sherlock’s eyes met hers. She still looked cold, unemotional. “I suppose you want to know about Victoria?”

“Not really.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise. “Beg your pardon?”

“I said  _no_. Unless you want to tell me, and then I’ll listen, but…”

“Right.” Sherlock licked her lips. “Are you – you’re sure?”

“Yes.” Joan gave her a half-smile. “I trust you.”

An answering smile tugged at Sherlock’s lips. “Well, you have a record of making the absolute worst decisions.”

“And yet I’m still here.” Joan held out her hand, and after a moment of hesitation Sherlock took it. “Come here, you.”

And she let herself be dragged into Joan’s lap.

 

**VIII**

Seven weeks.

Fifty-two days. So nearing eight weeks, technically.

Almost two months.

Sherlock chewed absently at a lock of hair. Fifty-two days of waking up with the sudden realisation of  _Joan, hers_. Fifty-two days of her stomach twisting every time she looked at her. Fifty-two days of – of  _lust_ , something she hadn’t ever really felt before, something that filled her with as much dread as delight.

She wanted Joan. Joan wanted her. Seemed silly that they hadn’t done anything about it yet. But Joan had insisted on  _going slow_.

Sherlock frowned at the ceiling. She was grateful for it, because even now just the thought of having sex with Joan made her palms sweat. But… But over the last week or so, her unease had finally been trumped by – by the other thing. By want. She’d been hoping Joan would just pick it up, the way she sometimes picked up other things unsaid, but she hadn’t.

Meaning she had to take the initiative.

She swung up from the sofa and strode determinately to Joan’s bedroom.

Joan was already in bed, but still up, reading a book. “Sherlock?” she said, putting the book aside. She’d gone sharp, alert – good old soldier. “Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s all fine.” She went over to the bed, knelt down beside Joan’s hips and then threw her knee over so she ended up straddling Joan.

“Errr…” Joan blinked. “What…”

“I’m tired of waiting.” She put her hands on Joan’s shoulders and came to the rather terrifying conclusion she didn’t have a clue what to do next. “I suppose this is the part where we kiss?” she suggested.

“I – Well, only if you – are you sure, love?”

Sherlock’s stomach did another one of those floppy things. “Yes,” she snapped. “Stop being so patronising about this and get moving.”

Joan blinked. “Moving?”

“Yes. You know – ” Sherlock waved a hand. “Doing. Things.”

“Things,” Joan echoed, the corner of her mouth twitching.

“Oh, for the love of – ” and Sherlock grabbed Joan’s hair and pulled her into a kiss.

She’d gotten better at kissing, mostly from simply copying Joan, who was an unfairly good kisser. Sherlock nipped at Joan’s bottom lip, touched the tip of her tongue against hers. Joan’s hand had come up to Sherlock’s hair, winding into the locks, giving her a sort of warm, tingly feeling that she still wasn’t entirely used to.

She angled her head and thrust her tongue deeper, shivered when Joan moaned in response. Because that was the best bit about all this: not Sherlock’s feelings and the way Joan could make her tremble and sigh and groan, but the way Joan  _reacted_  to Sherlock.

She’d never been wanted like this. It was intoxicating.

Joan pulled her off. “Alright,” she said, panting a little. “And stop looking so smug,” she added.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I thought you liked it when I – ”

“Yes, no, it’s – shut up, Sherlock.” She threw her arm around Sherlock’s waist and kissed her again, pulling their bodies closer, snug together. Still nothing they hadn’t done before, although feeling Joan’s breasts against her chest, and Joan’s hips…

And then Joan’s hand was on Sherlock’s waist, skin-on-skin, and her breath hitched. This  _wasn’t_ something they’d done before.

“You alright?” Joan asked, concerned.

Sherlock nodded. She leaned forward, hanging on to Joan’s shoulders. Joan’s hand was slowly sliding up, too firm to be tickling but too gentle to hurt. She could feel goosebumps rising in the wake of her touch, nerve endings responding.

Joan’s fingertips touched the bottom of Sherlock’s breasts and she chuckled. “I’ve seen your underwear drawer, I know how many bras you own, so there is absolutely no reason not to wear one.”

“They’re constricting,” Sherlock mumbled against Joan’s shoulder. “And I don’t really need them anyway.”

Joan hummed. Her hand gently cupped Sherlock’s breast.

Again, Sherlock’s breath hitched.

Sherlock  _knew_ about this, that was the thing. She knew about nerve endings and where on the body they were most concentrated and how sensory sensitivity worked, but that wasn’t – that was theory. It hadn’t prepared her for this.

Joan thumbed at Sherlock’s nipple, sending another spark through her. “Sherlock?” Joan asked. Neutrally-voiced, her doctor’s voice. Why did she have her doctor’s voice on? “Talk to me, love, I’m a bit out of my depth here.”

“Really?” Sherlock pulled her head from Joan’s shoulder to look her in the eye. Joan blinked again, then licked her lips. “What about all those women that stayed over during the last year? You just held hands and played scrabble, did you?”

“They’re not you,” Joan said simply.

“Well, that’s t- true.” Sherlock’s eyes fell closed and she arched her back, pushing into the touch.

“So?” Joan asked, her fingers still gently working Sherlock’s breast. “This is good?”

“Yes. Ve- very good.” Sherlock fell forward onto Joan’s shoulder again. “And I suppose after this you’ll…”

“Hands down your pants, yeah. Assuming you’re wearing any. Unless you’d rather I didn’t?”

“I wouldn’t know that, would I?” Sherlock snapped, irritation mixing with the – the other things.

“Then just let me know if there’s something you don’t like, alright?”

Sensible responsible Joan. “Yes.”

“Good.” Joan pulled her hand back – Sherlock gave an instinctual little whine she immediately regretted – but then her hand went back around Sherlock’s waist, and she pushed and there was a complicated moment of navigating limbs and sheets –

And then Sherlock was on her back, Joan looming above her. Her arm was trapping Sherlock’s against the sheets. It hurt. She couldn't move it.

Sherlock’s mind went blank.

“Oops, sorry,” Joan said, hurriedly pulling away her arm.

“Do that again,” Sherlock gasped, senses still muddled. Like that time she’d got drunk, but – but so much more, and different, and  _better_.

“What?” Joan looked confused, which was normally a little endearing but now just plain annoying.

“The – thing.”

“What thi- oh.” Something changed in Joan’s expression, as if she’d made a connection, drawn a conclusion Sherlock didn’t understand. But then her fingers squeezed Sherlock’s wrists again and she was pinned to the bed and, god, yes, this.

“Yeah?”

Sherlock squeezed her eyes closed and nodded. Fire flowing through her veins. Her hips pushing up, seeking – something. Friction, touch.

“Fine, alright,” Joan mumbled, mostly to herself. She let go of Sherlock’s wrists again and put both hands on Sherlock’s hips, then yanked her trousers and underwear down. Her shirt followed, pulled roughly over her head. Her hair got briefly stuck in Joan’s hold but the sharp little stab of pain didn’t bother her. The opposite, in fact – but that was something to think about later.

“There.” Joan’s face had gone predatory, hungry. The only times Sherlock had seen her like that had been went they were on the chase for some dangerous criminal; she’d had the same feverish excited energy then as now.

And  _god,_  Sherlock wanted her.

Joan gathered Sherlock’s wrists in a one-handed grip above her head. Her fingers dug in hard, keeping her down. She threw one leg over Sherlock’s and nudged it aside, spreading Sherlock’s thighs.

Her left hand was still free. Sherlock eyed it.

“Still alright?” Joan asked.

“Fabulous. Get moving.”

“God, you’re a domineering prat.”

“Yes, but you –  _ngh_.”

Joan’s palm pressed warmly between Sherlock’s thighs, easing an ache she’d only been half-aware she’d had. She pushed her hips up, made a strangled sound. Joan pressed against Sherlock’s thigh. Was she – moving, couldn’t keep track…

Joan’s hand moved, fingers pressing inside and curling up –

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sherlock all but snarled.

“Did you just – “ Joan said, sounding shocked.

“Just – ” Sherlock tried to reach up, only to find her wrists being slammed down against the mattress. Her breath caught. Clever, beautiful, amazing Joan, who would have expected this?

Sherlock squirmed. Joan leaned down and kissed her, hard. Her fingers pressed up mercilessly inside of her and her thumb was rubbing slow hard circles above and her tongue dragged over Sherlock’s teeth and she was  _still_ holding Sherlock down –

Pleasure crested. Sherlock bit down hard on Joan’s lip, only barely aware of doing it, her body twisting and arching like it had a will of its own. But Joan was still holding her, so that was – was alright.

She breathed out heavily. Joan’s hand was still pressed between Sherlock’s thighs, but now the touch felt more soothing than anything else.

She felt like she was glowing. The satisfaction of a successful chase, only – more physical, in a way. 

Joan pulled her hand back. The other hand went away too. Sherlock slowly lowered her arm. Her wrists were red.

She found she didn’t really mind.

Joan. Right. Sherlock turned her head. Joan looked ruffled, her hair messed up and her cheeks flushed, pupils enlarged. Staring at Sherlock, and although Joan stared  _a lot_ at Sherlock, there was a new edge here. Half amazement and surprise, half – something almost like proprietary pride.

Once again, Sherlock really didn’t mind.

“Do you…?” she asked. Words came slow, thick.

“Hm? Oh, no, I already, um…”

Sherlock blinked and looked down. Joan was straddling Sherlock’s leg, wetness glistening on the skin of Sherlock’s thigh, and now she saw it she vaguely remembered some rhythmical rocking, Joan moving against her… But then again, she’d been busy concentrating on other things.

“Good.” Sherlock closed her eyes. A moment later the mattress dipped as Joan lay down, her head against Sherlock’s shoulder. “You will have to show me, though. Next time.”

“Show you what?”

“How to…” Sherlock’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “ _Pleasure_ you.”

Joan groaned. “That sounds terrible.”

“Oh, so you don’t want me to – ”

Joan slapped Sherlock’s shoulder. “Shut it.”

“Fine.” She pushed against Joan’s shoulder and rolled over until she was lying down with her head pillowed on Joan’s chest. Joan’s hand came up to play with Sherlock’s hair.

She couldn’t remember a time when she had felt this peaceful.

“Speaking of,” Joan said. “We are going to have to talk about that, you know.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock said, basking.

“Your surprising – but in hindsight actually kind of obvious – submissive streak.”

“Oh. Do we have to?”

“Yes,” Joan said firmly. “But not – I really don’t mind, Sherlock. I, um, opposite of mind.”

“Ah. That’s good then.” She burrowed her head a little closer to Joan.

“Yeah. Good.” Joan ran her hand over Sherlock’s hair, then craned her neck and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

Sherlock managed nothing but a vaguely satisfied hum. And then she fell asleep, held closely and safely into Joan’s arms.

 


End file.
